Toxin Reaction of the Year Awards
by ScaryScarecrows
Summary: There is no fluff. There is no hope. There is no God. There is no Crane...only SCARECROW.
1. Subject 394

AN: _A collection of my crowning achievements. You're welcome to sign up, but the side effects can be quite…severe. That said, think of it as donating your body to science. You are, after all, furthering my research._

_I remember this one quite well. I found him in an alley, seeking drugs. Addicts are always interesting-they tend to have a higher tolerance than the rest of you. Most entertaining. It helps that people tend not to miss them._

* * *

Henry Black-or, as Jonathan Crane called him, Subject 394-was a stubborn little bastard. He wouldn't scream, wouldn't cry, and wouldn't say what he was afraid of.

Scarecrow, unsurprisingly, was furious.

**_Sorry little son-of-a-bitch! Make him scream, Jonny, I don't care if you have to do a striptease!_**

_I am not doing a striptease._

Subject 394 sat in his chair, still as a statue. Jonathan frowned behind his mask and reached for a needle. To hell with science-he just wanted to make this idiot scream. Although…

He released the man, who refused to move. Fine. That just made it easier for him to grip his wrist and jam the needle into it. He didn't care if he left a mark or not. If he had his way, one little track mark would be the least of 394's problems.

One…two…three minutes, and then the twitching and muttering started. Jonathan backed out of reach and picked up his notebook. It was always interesting to see the free-roamer reactions.

This one was particularly messy. Within seconds, he was scratching at his eyeballs. Within minutes, said eyeballs were rolling on the floor, fleshy bits dangling off the back. God, this was going to be a nightmare to disinfect…

Between shrieks of pain and fear, 394 sank to the cement floor, hands cupped over his eye sockets. It was a shame his shrieks were wordless, but they were loud and very entertaining. He wondered how long he would last. He'd probably bleed out soon enough, if he didn't kill himself first.

It took two hours for the screaming and crying to stop. Half an hour after that, the moans and whimpers faded and 394 stopped twitching. Well. That had been a very…involved reaction. The best kind.

He'd clean up later. Right now he wanted a nice cup of tea.

THE END


	2. Subject 3

SwordStitcher-_I'm not sure if I should be insulted or not...no matter. Sometimes it isn't that they see anything, it's that they're convinced that something is burrowing into them. I've had one or two attempt self-surgery with a piece of broken glass-very messy indeed. Kitty wasn't pleased, but there wasn't anything to be done about it. Accidents will happen._

* * *

It was time. After two long years and one long weekend, it was ready. And it did work-he knew that firsthand.

The hardest part was picking his first real test subject. He'd considered selecting some random homeless person, but then decided to indulge himself. It was for science, after all, and weren't firsts supposed to be special?

He didn't have his mask yet, or the deadly aerosol canisters, or really anything. All he had at the moment was a burning curiosity and a sharp needle filled with clear liquid.

"Well, well, well. Mr. Napier." Jack Napier was one of his least favourite patients. He was, aside from other things, a narcissist with a fondness for bombs and a disrespect for authority. "How are we this evening?"

"Is this ah, a new therapy, Doc?"

"Of sorts." Just keep smiling. The smug little bastard was restrained now, there was nothing he could do. "Tell me, Mr. Napier, what are you afraid of?"

"Ah, Doc…"

"Never mind. We'll find out soon enough." He gripped the man's arm, squeezing until a vein was nice and visible. "Deep breaths."

**_Lovely bedside manner._**

_Oh, shut up._

The liquid slithered into the vein and he stepped back, rubbing his hands together and waiting.

Who would have thought that his most hated patient suffered from coulrophobia?*

THE END

* _Ye of little brain will know this better as fear of clowns. Those of you who are slightly brighter than a goldfish will recognise this patient. I still have no idea about the scars, more's the pity._


	3. Subject 25

AN: _The problem with using mental patients is that you can never tell if it's working. Well, that was the problem. Then Scarecrow got the bright idea to make himself a mask. It was very effective._

SwordStitcher-**_Jonny was scared to death of that scarecrow outside his window. _**_I was not! I didn't like it, that's all. **You kept thinking it was getting closer when you weren't looking. **It's not my fault Granny used it to train those birds. **Wuss.**_

* * *

He had never used this mask before. He'd only ever tried it on once or twice. After all, it was little more than a burlap sack with stitches in it for a face. _And_ it scratched up his glasses-idiot Scarecrow hadn't made it big enough. Passive-aggressive little monster.

**_It's not my fault you're a nerd._**

_If I wasn't a 'nerd' we would have no toxin._

**_I need no toxin!_**

_Admit it: it helps._

**_Eh._**

He was paying a 'house call' to one Thomas Schiff, paranoid schizophrenic. Those were the best subjects, really, because they were already highly suggestive. And this one was afraid of him-Scarecrow had forced his way out early on. The results had been rather traumatising.

"Hello, Thomas." He set his briefcase down. He was trying two new things today-the mask, and a new method of delivery.

Thomas did not answer. Jonathan frowned and sat down across from him.

"How are you today?"

He was rocking and muttering again. He hadn't received his medications-somebody was going to be in trouble. Typical Arkham staff.

"Thomas?"

"Nonononodon'thurtme…"

He permitted himself a small smirk and leaned down to pick up case.

"Do you remember the Scarecrow?"

The muttering grew louder. Jonathan tugged out the scratchy burlap mask and removed his glasses.

**_Pleease?_**

_Oh, all right. But don't leave any evidence._

**_I love you, Jonny-boy!_**

He yanked on his face-ahh, home at last!-and picked up the aerosol can.

"Hello, Tommy." Thomas looked up and went white to the lips. "Shall we play a little game?"

Ah, the glory of Arkham. Nobody cared if you were screaming. After all, you were already insane.

THE END


	4. Subject 427

AN: _To be honest, I don't recall if this really one was any good or if I was hallucinating. I had a concussion-long story._

SwordStitcher-_DON'T mention the clown. He's grouchy. The hyenas came to visit. Two weeks of work! I'll kill him one of these days, so help me... Of course, love. I mean it. Poisoned soda, perhaps, or 'you surprised me! I'm sorry I shot you in the face!' Good luck. I should given him a lethal treatment of electroshock... Go deal with the new subject. You'll feel better. I hate everyone._

* * *

The ceiling was spinning and he was reasonably certain that the lights weren't supposed to be this bright.

There. That looked about the right amount. Maybe it was a bit too much, but…it wasn't like she was leaving after this.

Eh. Close enough.

**_Jonny, I think something's wrong._**

_Small concussion. M'fine._

**_I think you're about to fall._**

_M'okay._

Vein, vein…aw, to hell with it. He'd just jab it in and see what happened.

He got five minutes of lovely screaming before the woman jerked, frothed at the mouth, and slumped forward in the chair.

_Oops._

**_Go to bed._**

Bed. Bed was all the way upstairs. Besides, he could hear the screams echoing. _And_ no one had ever frothed at the mouth before. That was very interesting.

**_You gave her too much._**

_I did not._

**_Don't make me call Kitty._**

_You wouldn't._

There was a brief but furious mental struggle before Scarecrow got the upper hand long enough to shout. Five minutes later, they were being dragged back upstairs, away from the still drooling corpse.

_Traitor._

**_I don't wanna die! Just because you're a workaholic…_**

_I don't feel so good._

**_Duh._**

_Worth it._

"She was frothing and everything."

"Now you know what happens when you give them too much. Now if I catch you out of bed again…"

"Frothing." he mumbled. "Fascinating reaction."

He was only a little insulted when she locked the door on her way out.

THE END


	5. Subject 512

AN: _I didn't appreciate this imbecile releasing any information pertaining to me. (Really, I didn't appreciate Arkham having the information to begin with.) He learned his lesson. I enjoyed teaching it. There are few things more entertaining than hope ruined by terror._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I have since managed to duplicate it-usually on accident, but no matter. I don't know why they do it, exactly, and they never live long enough to do repeat tests._

SwordStitcher-_Don't give her ideas! Thank you, sweetie, I may do just that.  Try it and I'll throw you in that cell with them. Try that and you'll get your eyes clawed out. And put in a jar? I WAS SICK, STOP BRINGING THAT UP._

* * *

The man who had once been Arkham's own Warden Sharp stepped hesitantly into the office. It was dark, silent…seemingly deserted. That bastard Crane, he'd said…

"Come in. I won't bite."

He jumped a little and there was a low chuckle in the darkness. Then there was a _click_ and the room was flooded with light.

Crane was sitting in a large armchair, his mask in his lap and that god-awful glove on his hand. Sitting to his left was the reason Sharp had come-his daughter, Linda. She was bound and gagged but looked otherwise unharmed.

"She is, I assure you, little the worse for wear. Come here. Sit down. I insist."

Sharp became aware of a chessboard. Why was there a chessboard in here?

"No. Give me back my daughter."

"_Sit down_, Sharp, or there _will_ be consequences." As if to emphasize the fact, he tapped Linda's arm with one of the syringes.

Sharp sat down.

"Much better. Now, I'm sure you want to know why I called you here."

"Batman will find you." Sharp spat. "He always finds you."

"Not tonight." Crane grinned and patted his mask. "He will be otherwise occupied tonight. Now, let's get down to business, shall we?"

"Business?"

"Your daughter was merely the means to get you here. I wanted to talk to you."

Sharp didn't want to talk to him. He knew firsthand what happened when Crane 'talked' to people.

"No."

"No?" The needle moved, ever so slightly. "You're sure? Final answer?"

"Wait."

"I thought so."

Sharp glanced at the mask again. As long as it stayed off, Crane could be reasoned with. It was the other personality that was unpredictable.

"You've got me. Release my daughter."

"No. She will be remaining here to keep you in line." A bitter smile spread over the man's face. "Fired from Arkham. What a pity. Although, releasing patients' records _is_ illegal…"

"Don't talk to me about illegal."

**_"Watch it, Sharp."_** No. No, no. "Sorry about him. He…worries. But nevermind why you're here. You want to leave, do you not?"

"Yes."

"I'll make you a deal. We will play a round of chess. If you win, your daughter will be released-unharmed-and you will be free to go. You have my promise. But if I win…" The Cheshire-cat grin was back in place. **_"You're mine."_**

"I've never played chess in my life."

"Good time to learn, then! I'll be generous. We'll make it two out of three, shall we? Give you a round to learn the ropes."

"You bastard."

"I do wish people would be more original." Crane complained. "I've heard that one already. Well, white moves first. That would be you. So move."

Sharp studied the board, trying to remember what he'd seen other people do. Chess-his daughter's sanity hinged on chess! Maybe he should have been nicer to the chess club nerds in high school…

He moved a pawn, sat back, and waited.

* * *

"Well, well. And you said you'd never played chess." Crane settled back into his armchair. "A promise is a promise, I suppose. You're free to run, scream, call the police, beg for Batman to save you…"

"Linda."

"Who? Ah. Of course. Shall we shake hands?"

"No."

"I suggest that you do as I ask. Do remember that your daughter is still tied to this chair, and it takes so little to irritate my…alter."

Sharp gave him a scathing look but stuck his hand out. Crane took it-and gripped it.

"Let go!"

He tried to pull back-oh, he tried!-but there was the prick of something entering his skin and the rush of foreign fluid entering his veins.

"You double-crossing son of a bitch!"

"I said your daughter would be released unharmed. I said nothing about you. Hold still, my dear, I wouldn't want there to be an accident."

He could have rushed him, but the needles were too close to Linda. He really could do nothing but sit there and wait.

He didn't have to wait long.

THE END


	6. Subjects 234 & 235

AN: _The best kind of subject is the kind that knocks on my door. Split into two parts, one for each._

SwordStitcher-_Her case made headlines: 'JOKER CORRUPTS INTERN' and that sort of thing. Edward was furious that he missed everything-he was out at the time. Shame, that-it was fascinating to watch her break down. Almost unfortunate, really-behind the babbling, she's no fool. Mostly, anyway..._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_When you're seeing six of everything, it gets difficult. It didn't help that my glasses had a crack in just the wrong spot. As for the Batman, well... That was me. I asked Harley if she wanted to have a girl's night out-Joker had kicked her out again-so we went...shopping. Sort of._

* * *

He'd been asleep for less than twenty minutes when there was a knock on the door and two voices called out, "Trick or treat!"

"I didn't hear that."

"Ignore them, they'll go away."

Jonathan leaned against the window, his mask in his hand. Two teenagers were standing on his doorstep, dressed in…oh, really?

**_Plagiarism! Plagiarism!_**

_I know, I know. Be quiet, maybe they'll go away._

**_I am the only Scarecrow in town, buster!_**

_Let's not draw more attention to ourselves than necessary._

The two would-be Scarecrows went into a huddle. When they came up, they had spray cans.

_You know, I did want to try that new formula…_

**_Oh, really?_**

He put his mask back on and strolled on downstairs.

"Kitty?"

"What?"

"We'll be having guests."

"Try not to bring the Batman down on our heads."

He opened the door right as one guest was raising his spray can. The kid gasped and stepped back into his friend.

"Uh, mister…"

"Trick or treat?" Scarecrow cocked his head. "How about…trick!"

One of them whimpered, "Mommy."

Both of them tried to run.

Then they went down shrieking. Scarecrow grabbed the nearest ankle and started pulling.

_Try not to bang its head on the stairs._

**_Eh. It'll live._**

_I've never had a concussed subject before._

**_You're about to. This heavy bastard won't stop flailing!_**

_Kick it._

Tempting as it was, it turned out to be unnecessary. Once it was in the hallway, he went back for the other one.

* * *

Andy Stonewall came to with a headache and a sore throat. What happened…they'd been trick-or-treating…oh, shit.

His mask was gone. He was tied to a chair. And the actual Scarecrow-real life, honest-to-god, scream-inducing Scarecrow-was standing in front of him.

Shit.

"Good evening."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry pleasedon'thurtme…"

"Stop your snivelling." Andy shut up and stared at the floor, hoping the police would come. Or the Batman. Or…anyone, really.

"So. How are we this evening? Cozy? Comfortable? **_Scared?_**"

He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut. This was a bad dream, just a bad dream…

A surprisingly warm hand gripped his face and made him look up.

"So. You thought you'd dress up like me and bang on my door." The mask seemed to grin. "You're funny." He chuckled. "Also, very stupid. Do you know what I do to people that knock on my door and wake me up?" The hand moved his head back and forth. "No? You're sure? Come, come, you're dressed up like me. You should know."

"Please…"

"Shut up and let me have my **_fun_**!" Andy swallowed and closed his eyes again. "Where was I…right. I make them scream. Doesn't that sound nice?"

"No…"

"Should've thought of that before you woke me up." he growled.

Where was Steve? Was he in here? Had he gotten away, gone for help?

Andy tried to look behind him, but moving made his headache spike.

"Your little friend is locked safely away in another room. Don't worry, I haven't let him off the hook."

Crap.

The mask came off and Crane combed a few strands of hair out of his face and put a pair of rimless glasses on. Was that good or bad?

He picked up a tape recorder and flicked the switch. A little green light came on in the tope right-hand corner.

"This is Doctor Jonathan Crane, beginning preparations for subject number two-thirty-four."

Oh, god, oh, god, this was some sort of nightmare come to life…

Crane set the recorder down and picked up a syringe and a small vial.

"Much stronger reaction this way." he explained, filling the syringe. "Gas is all well and good for defence, but for research…"

"Please, I'm sorry, I won't tell anyone…"

"Be quiet. I don't want to give you an overdose."

He flicked the glass cylinder a few times and finally came back to Andy.

"Do try to make your screams somewhat intelligible. Makes it easier for me."

Oh god, oh Jesus…

There was a small prick at the base of his neck and the unmistakable sensation of something entering his veins.

_Breathe, breathe, breathe…_

Breathing didn't do jack shit and soon enough a long, hairy leg poked his shoe.

_No no no no_

"What do you see?"

Was he fucking blind? How could he not see them?

Another leg latched onto his shoe, then another, pulling the rotund body off the floor.

**_"WHAT DO YOU SEE?"_**

"Tarantulas!"

That earned a low chuckle.

"Very good."

The hairy, heavy creature continued its steady creep up his leg, coming to a rest on his knee.

Then one lowered down, down, down…and onto his mouth.

Oh, god, it was _real!_ Real! But he couldn't scream, because it might go in!

The Scarecrow punched him in the stomach and his mouth opened in an involuntary gasp.

Then the leg went inside.

THE END

AN: _I keep live tarantulas on occasion, seeing as arachnophobia is such a common fear. It…helps things along._


	7. Subjects 234 & 235, cont

AN: _This one was, by far, the more vocal of the two. Of course, when you don't have a tarantula crawling around on your mouth…necrophobia, by the way, is fear of corpses, death, et. cetera._

SwordStitcher-_Is that so? How horrible. For you, of course, not for me. I may actually have one around here somewhere...she's molting, though, so..._

* * *

After rescuing his tarantula before it could lose a leg, Jonathan injected the idiot with a mild sedative, flicked off the light, and went upstairs to deal with the other one. Normally, he would have let him sit until his companion was worthless, but he was annoyed at having been woken.

Scarecrow, naturally, was beside himself with joy.

**_Two! Two in one night! Jonny, Jonny, this is beautiful! Almost like killing your dear old Granny all over again!_**

He was so easy to please, it was almost pathetic.

His enthusiasm _was_ contagious, however, and he couldn't stop a small smirk from spreading across his face.

He opened the door and went in. His subject was safely restrained in the chair, gagged and blindfolded.

**_Muahahaha!_**

He removed the blindfold-ugh, this one was a drooler-and was greeted by a stream of profanities and pleas for help. Idiot. There was no one to help him.

He considered getting a sign for his lab that said, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

"How are we?"

"You bastard, my dad's a cop, he'll be on you so fast…"

All the better! Police irritated him. They always broke his glasses. Gordon was one of the few he could tolerate-he didn't like the man, obviously, but he could tolerate him. For small amounts of time only.

"And does your father know where you are at this very moment?"

That shut the little punk up. Good. Now he could get down to business.

"I thought not. Are you comfortable? You haven't lost too much circulation in your hands yet?"

He didn't get an answer. Fine. He wouldn't waste his energy being nice, then.

**_My turn!_**

_Have at him._

Scarecrow dropped Jonathan's glasses on the table, inwardly complained about his sudden lack of vision, and yanked the mask on over his face.

_Bet you're wishing you'd made this big enough for my glasses now._

**_NEVER!_**

**_"I hope your throat isn't too dry. I expect you to scream."_**

Canister, canister…ah. There was the canister. It was time to play.

**_HISSSSSSSSS._**

Subject 235 began coughing and trying not to inhale. Scarecrow cackled and flicked the lights off.

**_"What are you afraid of?" _**he mocked, making his way around the table to stand behind his new toy. **_"Is it spiders? The dark? Death?"_**

A low whimper came from the boy in front of him. Good, good. Another minute and he would know if this one was a screamer or not.

He rubbed his hands together and got an idea. He stooped, held his palms against the cold cement for a minute, and stood up.

Where was the little brat…right there, still whimpering.

Perfect.

He wrapped his now-freezing hands around his neck and relished in the sudden shriek. The throat under his hands vibrated and he squeezed a little to see what would happen. The shrieking continued.

_Necrophobia. _

This was beautiful. They hadn't had one this loud in a while.

"Get away!"

Scarecrow grinned and reached around to grasp the boy's wrists. That induced a whole new volume of screaming.

"GOD NO!"

God, yes.

He released the wrists and made his way to the light switch and flicked it on.

There was one more sudden, "EEEEEEEE!"

Then there was silence.

Jonathan removed the mask, replaced his glasses on his face, and went over to the subject. The face was still in a horrified grimace, the eyes staring at something in the corner.

That was a job well done.

He turned off the light again and went upstairs. It was time to go to bed.

THE END


	8. Subject 123

AN: _Very rarely do I try a field experiment. They're always worth the risk._

scribblescribblescribble-_But of course. I finally did get a sign put up saying exactly that-Scarecrow wanted to write it in blood, but I managed to talk him out of it. **I wouldn't call it 'talking', Jonny. **What would you call it, then? **Bribery.** Fine, fine. I bribed him. It had to be done. **It still would've been awesome. **It would have gone brown and flaked off._

SwordStitcher-_Kitty? Where's Irene? In her tank, leave her alone! But... Leave her alone, she's sleeping! Oh, very well...perhaps another time, then. And by all means, wake me up. Really. I love the sounds of screaming and crying at four in the morning. Makes me...really hungry, actually. **PIE. **For once, that's a good idea. **'For once'? Humph.**_

* * *

He's counting on a combination of dehydration, malnutrition, toxin-induced terror and general disorientation to throw her off.

He had her for a week when he got the bright idea to release her into a graveyard and see what would happen. So far it's rather funny-she can't walk in a straight line, let alone run, and she seems to think the tombstones are people.

"Maria!" he calls. She jumps and launches herself behind a tree. There's a dull **thwack** and he surmises she's hit her head.

He ducks down behind a larger stone and waits for her to be brave enough to come from behind the tree. Sure enough, a few minutes later she stands up and wobbles towards him. He stays where he is for another minute before standing up and waiting for her to see him.

"Get away from me!"

He grins and spreads his hands.

"I'm nowhere near you, child."

That apparently doesn't reassure her, because she steps back, trips over a tree root, and tries to crab-walk backwards. He doesn't move.

"Run."

She obliges. He lets her get a little ways away before strolling after her, whistling 'The Worms Crawl In, the Worms Crawl Out'.

"Somebody help me!"

No one will help her, not in Gotham.

She trips over one of the crumbling tombstones and lands on her back. Her hair tangles in a fallen twig and she screams. She has a rather acute fear of zombies-he found that out in his lab. An irrational fear, but increasingly common. He blames the rise of the slasher film.

"I'm not going to hurt you, child." Not physically, anyway. Mentally, she'll be lucky if she makes it out alive.

She throws a rock at him. It misses him by a mile, but Scarecrow is incensed.

**_That bitch! How dare she throw rocks at us?_**

_Flight-or-fight response._

**_Whatever._**

Scarecrow wants to come out, but this is a rare opportunity and he _will not_ have him ruin it.

The girl throws a handful of dirt at him this time and he laughs at her.

"Get away!"

"And leave you here, alone, in the one place that _zombies _might congregate?" He cocks his head. "If you insist…"

She's sobbing now, dirt smudged into her face. The toxin is wearing off and her energy is decreasing. As interesting as this was, it's time to wrap things up.

**_Kill her for throwing a rock at us?_**

_No. I'm not done with her yet._

**_Excellent._**

He steps over her, cuffs her hands behind her back, and proceeds to drag her towards the van. Usually he'd have someone come and pick her up, but she's already bruised. A few more scratches won't hurt.

"Let me go!" She tries to struggle and only succeeds in smashing her foot into a tree. "Let go!"

The hired help meets him by the van and throws the girl into the back seat. That was very enlightening.

And very entertaining.

THE END


	9. Subject 330

AN: _I approximate this one as 330-always an issue in large crowds. This was mentioned briefly in 'Slow', from last year's dismally titled '31 Days of Scarecrow'._

SwordStitcher-_What do I look like, Santa? A bit thin for that, love. And I'm very touched. You and your moral compass. Less 'moral compass' and more 'Irene's a bit under the weather, be nice to her'. All she had to do was sit there. Still. Humph. Be nice to her. If I must._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_You people seem to think I am 'nice'. I AM NOT NICE. I AM FEAR INCARNATE. YOUR NIGHTMARES BOW TO ME. You also bring me soup and murder presents when I'm sick. SHH. What? It's true. You can't blame them for drawing conclusions. This calls for mass mayhem._

* * *

He's always interested in children's reactions. He's been meaning to study them in detail, but he just can't work it in.

He wasn't figuring on there being so many adults here tonight. Grandparents have to come, he supposes, and older siblings…ah, well. The more, the merrier.

Safely ensconced in an armchair in the lighting booth, he watches the screaming masses rush the doors. They won't be getting out that way, silly fools. There is no way out until he gives them one, or until Batman shows up. Perhaps they'll rush him-he's gotten them to do that before. It was amusing.

A flash of pink catches his attention. It's a little girl, dressed up as a fairy princess. Now, though, dirty and with broken wings, she looks more like a dark fairy. She's alone. That's interesting.

No, not alone. There's her mother, battling her way through the crowds to get at her. At least one teenager's front teeth get elbowed. Ouch.

He wishes he could hear what she's saying, but all he can see is her kneeling in front of the little girl. The child promptly starts to scream.

He imagines the mother trying to calm her, probably saying, "It's Mommy, sweetie!" Imbecile. As far as the child is concerned, Mommy is whatever lurks in the closet when the lights go out.

He's about to scan the crowd when things get interesting. Mommy picks up Child and goes to try the doors. Child, in a blind, panicked reaction, digs her chubby little fingers into Mommy's eye sockets.

Then somebody blocks his view. Damn.

Smirking, he makes a mental note to give that child special attention when he writes all this up.

THE END


	10. Subject 1

AN: _I had to make certain that it wasn't instantly fatal-how would I explain that?_

SwordStitcher-_I tried to put him in a Santa hat, but he wouldn't go for it. I got him a Grinch beanie instead. For disguise.__ Humph. Children are never cute. They throw tantrums and put their sticky, germy fingers into everything. Like eye sockets, apparently. _

* * *

They stay after hours one night to do it. What better place to do this than in a hospital? Once everyone is gone save for the night orderlies, they lock the basement door and go downstairs to the laboratory.

To Hell.

Everything is sterile-as sterile as it will ever be-and everything is prepared. The antidote-it worked on mice, should it be necessary-notebooks, extra pencils…the toxin.

It looks so innocuous. It's crystal-clear, no fizzing, no skull-shaped bubbles. It looks like a vial of water.

But so does Vodka.

In the mice, it took a few minutes to work. All the same, she'll be doing the injecting. She is the nurse here, after all.

He settles back into his cushy chair, heart racing. Two years of research, two years of working on bottling people's worst nightmares…now for the moment of truth.

He takes his glasses off so they don't get broken and takes a deep breath to try and calm himself.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

The prep work-vitals, pupil size-is done. It is time.

He watches the needle enter his arm. He's always found people's fear of that to be ridiculous. Then the plunger goes down and he _feels_ it enter his veins like a snake bite.

For three minutes and fifty-nine seconds, nothing happens. Was it a failure? What's going on?

Then his world turns into a nightmare.

Arkham's cozy basement falls away and he is standing in a hot, empty room with no roof. It's dark and he hasn't seen it for fifteen years, but there's no mistaking it. Granny's aviary.

It's an illusion, he knows it-it's too stylised, too Tim Burtonesque-but it's convincing and his pulse is already racing.

He puts his hand out and touches the old wooden door, not trying to open it. Yes.

Something moves in the shadows, click-clacking. He turns, expecting the crows to have come, and feels the floor fall away like he's in an elevator.

He knows that skeleton. Eyes pecked out, mouth surrounded by gouges…he put her here. And now she's come to keep him here.

He can't move, no matter how hard he tries, and she click-clacks her way over to him, her jawbone moving up and down wordlessly.

"G-Granny…"

"Child." she rasps. "Sinner."

The room is beginning to crumble as she reaches him, resting her bony fingers on his shoulders.

"Granny, please…"

She's gone. Just…gone. So is the room. He's back in Arkham's basement, gasping for breath and feeling a little queasy. Is this what coming down from a high feels like?

It didn't last long enough, he decides. He'll have to work on that. But it is a very promising start.

THE END


	11. Subject 420

AN: _Never offer me something in exchange. I will take it and you and then where will you be?_

APieceOfThePuzzle-_It took time. I started with the injectable version because it was the only one that would_ work. _Eventually I did manage to get it into an aerosol form, but the liquid form is stronger. Better for testing, but not for self-defense._

* * *

He's always found it funny that the great 'philanthropists' are the ones who plead the loudest. This one, for instance, tried to trade give him her PA in exchange.

He took them both.

Now that the PA is tucked away for later and he now has one of Gotham's main activists tied safely to a metal folding chair in his lab. Why an activist would have a PA is beyond him, but he doesn't particularly care.

"How are you, Miss Favel?"

If looks could kill, he'd be dying on the floor.

He loves this type best. The haughty ones, the ones that think they're so…_damn…__**special.**_

He leans back in his own comfy chair-what? More often than not he's got something broken, bruised, or dislocated-and opens his notebook.

"I need you to answer a few health questions."

"Fuck off, Crane."

What _is_ it about fear that makes some people become belligerent baboons? He really should look into that one day.

"I'll just assume you're completely healthy. Hope you don't suffer from heart trouble…"

Her face pales and he resists the urge to grin at her.

She _does_ have a weak heart, according to her medical file. (Kitty was kind enough to borrow it for him. A miracle what a few compliments to a Mother's-basement-dwelling guard will do. Not that he likes it.)

He'll give her a lower dose than usual, he decides. As fun as it is to watch them foam at the mouth before falling over, it's more fun to have a few sessions _before_ that happens. Now, which method…ah. Gas. It's been awhile since he's used that, and he wants to make sure it's still effective. As if it wouldn't be!

"Miss Clarice Favel." he says, beginning to circle her chair. "On the school board, spends her free time volunteering at homeless shelters and attempting to raise money for…dear, dear. Arkham Asylum."

He remembers her from his days there. She was annoying.

"Well. Here are your funds at work." He steps back and spreads his hands. "Not very impressive, is it? What did you give them for? A new television? Joker always smashes it sooner or later."

She glares at him, her eyes glistening but her mouth firm. He's slightly impressed by her determination not to cry.

That'll make it sweeter when she starts to scream.

"Or was it to improve the security? As you can see, it didn't help." He rubs his hands together and turns to his work table. Mask, canister, notebook and pen within easy reach…it is time to begin.

She has no chance of holding her breath-not that it would help. In fact, she's just taking a deep breath when he gasses her.

It works so much faster than injection. He sees her face register what's happened, just for a second, before it blanches and she squeezes her eyes shut. Her breath is coming in squeaky gasps, like an asthma attack.

He puts the mask on and goes over to her. She's sweating and her hands are very cold. Good, good. But now comes the fun part.

**_"Clarice."_**Scarecrow rasps. **_"Clarice, look at me."_**

She shakes her head, her lips pressed together tight enough to make them white. Scarecrow frowns and grips her chin.

**_"Look at me."_**

She cracks an eye open and promptly shuts it again. Why isn't she screaming? She should be screaming, the little bitch!

**_"What do you see?" _**he growls, gripping tighter. She'll have bruises, but he doesn't care about that. She can still breathe, and therefore she can still scream.

**_"TELL ME!"_**

She suddenly takes a deep breath and screams for someone called Angelica. Angelica, Angelica…ah. Her daughter. Of course.

**_"Worried about your daughter?" _**He cackles. **_"You should be. I had her tossed into Croc's sewer."_**

He's done nothing of the kind-Croc is not someone to get within five feet of-but she doesn't need to know that.

She screams, a scream more of rage than of fear, and Scarecrow steps back. She's rocking the chair now, rocking it and gnashing her teeth as if to bite his face off. A budding Hannibal Lecter, this one. Bitch.

Jonathan can deal with this.

She's managed to tip the chair and is trying to drag it over to him. He takes a few more steps back and sighs. Mothers…never very good test subjects. His own mother was a little more interesting, but she was never very good at the whole 'parenting' thing. Although it is rather hilarious to watch her foaming at the mouth like a rabid squirrel as she screams obscenities at him.

"You bastard, don't you dare hurt her or I'll tear your skinny ass limb from limb!"

He'd like to see her try.

"I didn't do a thing. If Croc's eaten her by now, that's hardly my doing."

She roars-roars! How quaint-at him and manages to launch herself a few inches across the floor. He dodges her teeth, pats her on the head, and retreats to the stairwell to write up his notes.

THE END


	12. Subject 62

AN: _It couldn't be helped. She was bound to stumble onto something sooner or later and I was not about to bribe an eighteen year-old brat._

SwordStitcher-_...Go Fish. Card game for small children. Simple and based on luck? Yeah. Sounds terrible. They can't very well play Russian Roulette. Are you sure? Pretty sure, yeah. No wonder we're surrounded by idiots._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I hate that movie.__ How do you know? You spent most of it clinging to me and not looking. I'm not deaf, you know. Hello, Clarice... THAT'S NOT FUNNY. You and serial killers... _

* * *

"Good evening, child."

The girl-and she is a girl, barely eighteen-gives him a petulant look. He's not sure if she's an idiot, trying to be brave, or if she thinks this is something else.

He doesn't like experimenting on the staff-too risky-but this one has been _most _annoying. She's a snoop. And she's his secretary, which puts her in the perfect position to find something out. The fact that she's constantly flirting with him is not helping.

She has to go.

"Doctor Crane…"

"You've been wondering why I stay late, haven't you."

"I…"

"Don't lie to me. I detest being lied to."

She shuts her mouth and glares at the floor instead of him. Better.

He makes sure the restraints are secure before filling a small syringe. Perfect. She's been so busy, too…he'll blame this on overwork. Too much school, too much overtime, not enough sleep. Poor thing, he had no idea she was so stressed…tsk, tsk.

**_You bad man._**

_I don't have a choice. She's nosey._

**_Probably doesn't help that her binder has your name with little hearts around it._**

_WHAT?_

**_Yeah. Kinda awkward._**

_Why couldn't I have been a freckly ginger with giant ears?_

**_Huh?_**

_I don't know._

There. The syringe is ready, a spot on her arm has been swabbed with alcohol, and her vitals have been taken.

This will teach her to snoop and doodle stupid things on her binder.

"Doctor Crane, I didn't…"

It's too late. The needle is in her arm and the clear liquid is going in. What is she afraid of, he wonders? She's always so hideously perky. Silence? Social rejection?

Hmm.

"What's that?"

"You'll see, child. You'll see soon enough."

Oh, she would see. And this would be the end of her behaviour.

Soon enough, her face goes pale and she begins to sweat. Good. Very good. This is a good batch-the last one took ten minutes to take effect like this.

He reaches for his notebook and begins scribbling things down, stopping now and again to check her pulse and her breathing rate. Her pupils have dilated to the point that she looks like a junkie.

"What do you see, my dear?" he says softly. "What do you see?"

She's drawing quick, shallow breaths like she has asthma. She's the third subject to have that reaction. He'll have to look into that.

"What frightens you?"

She stops gasping. Shit. She's not dead, is she? How dare she die without telling him anything!

No. No, she's not dead. A second later she opens her mouth and screams, "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

He steps back and scribbles that down, too. He really should get a tape recorder…or maybe a video camera…

"What do you see?" he says again, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Brianna."

"Get away from me! Get away!"

An attacker of some kind, then. But is it a specific one, or just a random mugger?

She thrashes and tries to kick out, but the ropes around her legs prevent that. He moves behind her, out of reach, and puts his hands on her shoulders.

"What do you see?" he says softly. "Who's there?"

She jerks her shoulders away from him-not bad!-and tries to hop away. She only succeeds in falling over. He jots that down too and drags the chair away from the table. She isn't screaming anymore. She's just lying there with her eyes shut, shivering. That's an interesting reaction. Denial? Very childlike.

She finally passes out-they all do, in the end-and he unties her and calls for one of his orderlies.

"Take her upstairs and drop her in my office. She's had an accident."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Thank you."

He stows the bottles out of reach and tucks his notebook safely into his briefcase. Looks like he'll need a new secretary.

THE END


	13. Subject 220

AN: _I know some of you wish I would 'experiment' on you. My apologies. If you appear on my doorstep sans clothing, I will take that as an invitation to kill you._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Yes, actually. Myself, and a few others. It doesn't matter-physically, you're still experiencing the symptoms. SHOW? No more... I wonder if I could get Zsasz to dress up like him and pay a visit. YOU DO AND I SWEAR YOU'LL NEVER HAVE CHILDREN. I don't want children. YOU'LL NEVER GET THE CHANCE TO CHANGE YOUR MIND. No Zsasz, then? Don't make me cry on you. That's not fair. Yeah, well...you know._

SwordStitcher-_The majority of them quit, actually. Something about 'too much work'. What they thought Arkham would be like remains a mystery. Idiots. In answer to that question...six? Seven? Not counting the temps, of course. With the heightened escape rate, the current director is worse off. Nobody wants to come into the office and find Zsasz arranging their employer. Place has gone to Hell...none of that ever happened when I was in charge._

* * *

He wasn't sure what had been happening in Gotham. Somehow, someway, it had been overrun by young women with…fondness…for its costumed criminals.

The Joker didn't seem to mind-of course he wouldn't. Harley minded, but the Joker was simply flattered.

Jonathan Crane, on the other hand, was getting sick and tired of these idiots sending him letters in Arkham-frequently rather…graphic…letters. And that didn't even touch the things that had been appearing on the internet.

And this…this took the cake.

He didn't know how she'd found him. Edward had probably told her. He found all this hilarious.

"Hi, Doctor Crane."

**_Why is there a chick wearing a trench coat standing in the doorway?_**

_I don't know._

**_Kitty's not going to like it._**

_I don't like it._

"Like what you see?"

What the hell? He had been working! And this…this…

**_Whore? Slut? Fucking bitch?_**

_Something along those lines._

had interrupted him. For no other reason than-presumably-attempted…well…

_I blame Granny._

**_Why?_**

_It's those files Sharp released. I didn't have this problem until they found out._

**_True._**

"Not really."

She bit her thumb, probably assuming he was being coy or something. She was in for a nasty surprise.

"May I come in?"

He considered shutting the door, but then he got a better idea. It wasn't every day someone showed up and came in of their own accord.

"Sure."

He stepped aside, quietly appreciating the lack of lighting in the hallway. He shut the door once she was inside and debated on filming this.

Why not? He could always send it to the news later on, maybe with a suitably pathetic note to make sure they played it.

"Right this way."

"Are you going to _experiment_ on me?" she giggled. God, he could strangle her here and now.

"Yes." There. That was consent. This had to be a first. "Wait down here for a few minutes."

He left the light on and locked the door behind him. Oh, what a nasty surprise she was in for! This was shaping up to be a very good day.

But if Edward directed any more of these things to him, they were going to have to talk. Or, rather, he would talk and Edward would curl up in the foetal position and cry.

"Kitty, where's the camera?"

"Hall closet. Why?"

"Some girl showed up at the front door and volunteered."

"Another one?"

"Yes."

She groaned and reached over to straighten his jacket.

"This is ridiculous. What do they think is going to happen?"

"I don't know."

"Have fun. Don't take too long, though-that Chinese place closes at eight."

Mm. Chinese. An extra incentive to make this quick.

"All right."

He dug the camera out and went back downstairs. The girl was lounging in his chair-of course she was!-and toying with the belt of her coat. Hopefully she wouldn't take it off any time soon-he didn't relish prying stiffening limbs back into it to get rid of the body.

"What's that for?"

"You wanted me to experiment on you, didn't you?" He set the camera up and beckoned her over. "Sit down there, please."

"Are you going to punish me?"

_You have no idea._

"Perhaps."

The coat stayed on. Good. He dug out his trusty duct tape-half gone, damn-and attached her to the chair. She giggled and squirmed. Another minute or two and they'd see how fun she thought this was.

Was the camera on? Yes. It was time to begin.

"This is subject number two hundred and twenty, Gotham. That's a rather high count, wouldn't you agree?" The giggling continued. What did she think this was? Oh, never mind-he didn't want to know. "I want to make something very clear. I have no interest in any of you aside from your potential as a test subject. Showing up on my doorstep in nothing but a coat will be seen as a plea for psychiatric help…and I will oblige."

The giggling had stopped. Good. Now she was just shifting around, looking very uncomfortable. That was fine. He hadn't chosen that chair for comfort, after all. He'd chosen it because it had a habit of folding up with someone on it. Scarecrow had given it the loving name of 'Jaws'.

He turned to her and took his time filling the syringe. She had the decency to look a tiny bit frightened.

"What's that?"

"Don't you know?"

"Is it some kind of drug?"

God, she was as dumb as a rock. Hopefully she didn't have children-people this stupid had no business breeding.

"Yes." He didn't bother with her vitals. He really didn't want to touch her more than she could help, and they were probably skewed right now, anyway. "This won't hurt."

Much. At first.

"I don't like needles."

Perfect.

"My sympathies." he said. "You should have thought about that before you sought me out."

"Um…"

He gripped her arm and stuck the needle in. She whimpered and turned her head away, taking deep breaths.

"There we go."

"Doctor Crane?"

"The effects should begin to show any time now." he said to the camera. "I have given her a fairly high dosage."

"Dosage? Of what?"

"Silly girl." he said. "You really don't know, do you?" She shook her head, her eyes wide with panic. He leaned over her and made her look at him. "Toxin, my dear. A straight dose of my fear toxin. You did volunteer to be 'experimented on', after all."

He saw the realisation hit her-her eyes widened even further, her mouth dropped open, and the blood drained from her face. Idiot.

The toxin was beginning to take effect now, he could tell. Her pupils were dilated and her breathing had quickened. Good, good. He stepped back so the camera could get a good look at her.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" he said. "How quickly it works, I mean. Inhalation is even faster, but…"

"Please let me go, I won't say anything!"

"I know you won't. I've made sure of it."

"Please!"

He smiled at her and motioned for her to continue. She struggled against the duct tape.

Three…two…one…

**SNAP!**

There was a shriek of pain and terror as the chair tried to fold up. Scarecrow burst out laughing, his harsh, crow-like cackles echoing in Jonathan's head.

**_Thank god the camera's on!_**

_That was rather amusing._

**_America's Funniest Videos! God, we should send it in._**

_No._

Now that she'd begun, the screams came unbidden-short, sharp shrieks. He whistled the _Psycho_ theme and adjusted the camera-she'd fallen out of view when the chair snapped shut.

Soon enough the screams stopped and she simply lay there, shuddering and foaming a little at the mouth. Her eyes were dull now. She wouldn't live much longer.

"This is what is in store for you should you seek me out." he said, brushing a few stray hairs out of his face. "Knock with caution."

He turned the camera off and released the girl from the chair. He was pleased to see that even in this state, she tried to get away from him. That was better.

"Good night, child."

He left her there, twitching like an overgrown cockroach, and went upstairs to see about dinner.

THE END


	14. Subject 98

AN: _This has never happened again. That may be because I've been careful about avoiding the Hot Topic shoppers._

SwordStitcher-_Sadly, only one. Everybody else knows better than to play a tape sent by me, after that last...incident. Many a little child was watching the news for class and had to go to therapy due to trauma. Apparently there's a reason they don't show self-disembowelment in children's programming. I wouldn't know. **Aw, a little blood won't kill them. You lived. **Don't start on the embarrassing childhood stories again. **Kitty? Jonny ever tell ya about the time- **SHUT UP, SCARECROW._

APieceOfThePuzzle-**_Granny called him that. It scared him._**_ It did not! **I was there. It did. Quit telling lies. Only really lame people lie on the internet. **Shut up, Scarecrow. **Love you, too. **I really hate him sometimes...I don't know why they keep coming. Desperation? Alcohol? Stupidity? I keep meaning to ask, but I hate to encourage them. **You wouldn't knock on our door? Why not? We don't bite. Well, I could, but... **Ignore him, he's had too much sugar. **Spoilsport.**_

* * *

This has to be a first. A subject, very much under the influence of toxin, hugging him and asking for…help.

He is not pleased.

It all started because she yanked his mask off with her flailing-he'd let her roam, much more interesting-and _then_ knocked a vial of acid onto the floor. Then, to make matters worse, the Goddamn Batman had kicked down the door.

So now here he is, hands cuffed behind his back, hoping the crying woman will _let go_. He did this to her! Why is she asking him for help? And why does she have to hug him? What did he do to deserve this?

Batman is smirking-he _knows_ he is, even though he can't see his face. Humph.

Although…

"See the man in black?" he whispers. She peeks, shudders, and nods. Good. "If you get rid of him, I can help you."

Hopefully she'll be motivated enough to do it. Sometimes the crying ones can only sit in the corner.

But not this one.

He wouldn't have seen it coming if he wasn't looking. One minute she was crying and hugging him-ugh-and the next minute she's hanging off Batman's cape and shrieking in his ear. And he can't do anything about it, because she's the poor, innocent girl that doesn't what she's doing!

Why doesn't he have the camera rolling?

No matter. She can't hang on for long. He makes a break for the stairs-Kitty has a hairpin, she can get these cuffs off-stopping only to shut off the lights.

He will treasure that moment for the rest of his life.

THE END


	15. Subject Batman

AN: _I've gotten him a few times, actually._

SwordStitcher-_He knew. Trust me, he knew. It really hurt. Yeah, we got like four blocks before this giant black weight with wings slammed down in front of us. It was like Helm's Deep, only without Gandalf coming to the rescue. _

APieceOfThePuzzle-_I am nothing of the kind. I do not appreciate hugs, especially from a drugged subject who should be curled into a ball, screaming at the mere sight of me._

* * *

It has been too long…since high school…and he is not used…to running…this fast!

He flings himself behind a stack of boxes just as something sharp whizzes by. That could have been ugly.

Okay. Breathe. Maybe invest in a Segway or something. No, never mind. He doesn't want to drive off the roof and besides, it's…just no.

"Crane!"

He sounds like he has throat cancer or something. Probably trying not to be recognized…maybe he's Christopher Lee?

No matter. He is prepared this time. And Batman's probably a little dazed from being smacked in the head by a copy of _IT_. 'Words will never hurt me', indeed.

"Crane!"

Now.

He steps out from behind his barricade, arm up. Gotcha.

Aaaaaand it's…it's not working.

Oh, crap.

**_Run away!_**

_Why is not working?_

**_Who cares! Retreat! Retreat!_**

No, it is working. The Dark Knight's steps are slowing and he's starting to shake his head in an attempt to clear it. A second later he's tripped over his cape-capes! Capes are a death trap, they really are-and is lying on the ground at his feet.

He's absolutely _tickled_ at the sight.

**_Kick him._**

_And break a toe? I don't think so._

**_Aw, come on._**

_Maybe in a minute._

**_I wanna talk to him. Move._**

"Well, well, look at this. A bat in a trap." Scarecrow cackles. "What a shame."

The dark stain claws at the ground, trying to get up, and Scarecrow frowns. He's not done yet. How rude. Where did they drop that hardback…ah!

**BAM! BAM! BAM!**

There. That should keep him down for another minute.

"Poor little bat." he mocks. "All alone with nobody but me for company. What a shame."

"…father…"

_What was that?_

**_Who cares?_**

_Me. I'd like to know what scares him._

**_It's not your turn, so be quiet in there._**

"It's a crying shame that you had to find me, Batman." He shoves him over and narrowly avoids getting grabbed by the clutching fingers.

"Crane…"

"Jonny's not here, but I can take a message."

Batman tries to sit up-oh, he is determined-and Scarecrow takes aim with the book again.

**SMACK!**

There. Much better…why is he getting up? Why the hell is he getting up?

_Time to leave._

Yup. But first…

_SSSSPPPPRRRAAAYYY!_

Bats goes down yet again, clawing at thin air.

"Poor little bat." he mocks. "You're in _my_ world now."

When Bats starts getting up, still wheezing and clawing at nothing, he turns around and walks away. Hopefully there's a nice book-shaped bruise on his face. Good luck explaining that one.

THE END


	16. Subject 248

AN: _No one ever listens, but it's worth reiterating. EYES ON HER FACE, COMMENTS TO YOURSELF. Or don't, I'm happy for volunteers._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_You are pretty huggable, love.__ Oh, no... Oh, quit complaining. Nobody ever died from a hug. That's easy for you to say. You haven't been nearly snapped in half by an overzealous hug. True... IT? IT was...strange. Clowns, turtles..._

* * *

He's fairly certain his hapless henchman didn't _mean_ to jab his cohort in the ribs and chortle about how he'd love to get the boss's girl alone for a few minutes.

They never do.

The first one who did it ended up ripping his tongue out. It had been a mess, but it had been worth it. He'd hoped that would shut them up.

But this one is spectacularly stupid, and he has no time for stupid people. It may not be their fault, but he shouldn't have to pat their heads and wait for them to learn their lesson. He hated it in school and he refuses to do it now.

**_Are you thinking what I'm thinking?_**

_For once, I am._

**_I like the way we think._**

_Indeed._

"Mr. Dee, I'd like a word with you."

He appreciates the subtle signs of panic-the twitch, the widening eyes, and the too-fast speech.

"Sure, boss, sure, anything you say!"

But of course.

He makes sure his office door is locked-wouldn't want him getting away-before offering him a seat.

"You have a big mouth, Mr. Dee." he says smoothly. "And today is the day that it has gotten you into trouble."

"Boss?"

"Perhaps your co-workers didn't tell you." **_Or he didn't listen!_** "There are certain things that are…off-limits."

**_Like the lab, and my chocolate-peanut butter-ice cream, and our girlfriend…_**

_You're a distraction. Be quiet._

"Are you following me so far?"

"I didn't mean to."

They never do. Alas, he doesn't care if they 'meant to' or not. He never 'means to' kill people, either. It isn't his fault if they react badly to his toxin.

**_Yeah! We should be in for manslaughter, not murder._**

_That's right._

**_We should sue for defamation of character or something._**

_I don't think that'll work, and you'll throw a fit and gas the courthouse._

**_Yeah, probably._**

"I know you didn't, Mr. Dee. But lessons have to be learned, and this is a perfect teaching opportunity."

**_WHEEE HEEE HEEE!_**

_What was that?_

**_My mad cackle._**

_Oh._

Dee gets up and rattles the doorknob. Too bad! He's not going _anywhere_ until he's learned to keep his mouth shut.

Mask…canister…_HISSSSS!_

First comes the coughing. It's a bitter mist-nothing he can do about that, but he's working on it-and then comes the desperate wheezing. To the untrained eye, Dee may very well be having an asthma attack.

**_"Hello, Dee-Dee." _**Scarecrow looms over the coughing figure, his hands clasped behind his back. **_"Having fun?"_**

Wheeze, wheeze, wheeze. The coughing has stopped and now he's starting to shake. His fingers are twitching, grasping something only he can see.

**_"I'm so sorry to have to do this to you, Dee-Dee."_** Scarecrow chuckles. **_"But I'm a jealous bastard. I don't mean to be."_**

He has time to step back before Dee gets up and rushes at the window. He smacks into the glass like an oversized bird and falls, his nose streaming blood. Jonathan cringes and complains that that'll need to be disinfected. Whatever. Later. That's why they have minions.

"GET IT OUT OF ME!"

**_"Get what out, Dee-Dee?"_**

He's starting to pick at his chest. He's torn his shirt open-amazing what a little straight terror can do-and has scraped up the skin. But it's not enough, apparently.

Before he can stop him-as if he'd want to-Dee has snatched up the candlestick Jonathan keeps up here. The kid likes reading by it at night. Boring.

_He's not doing what I think he is, is he?_

**_Avert your eyes._**

_Make me._

**_Your funeral…_**

Dee's pounding at himself with the heavy candlestick. First there's bruising, then there's bleeding, then there's a nasty cracking noise when he hits a rib in just the wrong spot.

And then…

Somehow, someway, he's driven the candlestick-and a few broken ribs-inwards.

**_That'll teach him._**

_I need a new candlestick._

THE END


	17. Subject 2

AN: _If Kitty finds out that she's made this list, she will kill me in the most horrible way possible. So be quiet. That said, she isn't the most reactive. I blame myself-at this point she knows full well I'll take advantage of any phobias she might have. Ah, the things one can do with a well-placed rubber roach..._

SwordStitcher-_Nobody is foolish enough to touch his ice cream. Although I did throw it out once to teach him a lesson. **YOU. **I told you to behave. I told you not to kill any more people. **YOU THREW OUT MY ICE CREAM. **You killed a patient and nearly got us arrested. **YOU BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU? **I opened the freezer, picked it up, and put it in the trash. **I feel so betrayed. **And how do you _feel_ about that? **Don't even try that crap with me.**_

* * *

"You don't have to go through with this."

"Who else is going to cooperate so nicely?"

"…good point."

"Besides, we had a deal. I let you play mad scientist, you do whatever I say for a whole day."

**_As if you didn't anyway._**

_Are you implying something?_

**_Maybe._**

_You're wrong._

**_About?_**

_Whatever you think you're right about._

**_Whatever helps you sleep at night._**

"You really don't have to…"

"I'm fine. You said it wasn't fatal. I trust you. Mostly."

Well, congratulations, but he's not so sure about this. It isn't as though he's not looking forward to it-quite the opposite-but…well, it's still early on, what if something goes wrong…?

"If you say so."

Okay…straps secure? He would feel terrible if something were to happen.

**_Sure you would._**

_I would!_

**_Yeah, I'd give you the worst migraine of your life._**

_Thanks for the…incentive…to not mess this up._

**_You're welcome!_**

"Ready?"

"Uh-huh."

**_Remember-BIG MIGRAINE._**

To make sure he gets the point, there's a little spike behind his eyes. Ow.

_Okay, okay. I get it._

**_Good. Do it._**

Okay…if they insist…

His hands are steady when he takes hold of her wrist and inserts the needle. She's a little stiff-he can't blame her, he supposes.

All right. It's done. There's no backing out now.

This batch doesn't take nearly as long as the other one. Not even close. Within one minute and fifteen seconds, she starts screaming. Roaches. Typical. He never did understand that…

**_I knew it. Five bucks._**

_When did we make this arrangement?_

**_Just now. Five bucks._**

_No. What would you do with it, anyway? We share everything._

**_You're no fun…what's she doing?_**

_Trying to get the roaches off, looks like._

She doesn't seem to be having much luck, and eventually she manages to topple the chair. Note-get a sturdier chair. If she can knock it over, anybody can.

He has to admit-now that it's apparent that she's not dropping dead of a heart attack-that he rather likes the pitch of her screams.

**_She'll kill you if she finds that out._**

_I doubt it._

**_I don't._**

Unfortunately, it doesn't last long-he'll have to work on that again-and he reaches over to pull the chair upright. She's unharmed. Well, mostly-she's fainted, but that's all.

How very interesting indeed.

THE END


	18. Subject 42

AN: _Naturally, we left it there to rot. The last thing I need is for someone to spot a drowned boy with a look of horror on his face. We just threw a few of those Glade-plug-in-things inside and locked the door._

SwordStitcher-**_I'll never forgive you. _**_I'm heartbroken. Truly. And I'm sure she did, but she was a little more interested in the bruise from the injection. For whatever reason, it hurts more than a flu shot. Not that it matters to most people. Roaches are not that frightening. They're little. They're not poisonous. They don't even kick hairs at you._

* * *

Ah, the shopping mall. Perfect acoustics, plenty of open space for a free-roaming subject, and plenty of escape routes should something go wrong.

This one was built near the Narrows right before he destroyed them, so it never did become operational. Well, not as a mall, anyway.

It took some work-mostly promises of marijuana-but he got a seventeen year-old boy in here. Naturally, he gassed him and gave him a running head start before following along to see what he'd do.

He gave him too much of a head start, actually, and now he has to find the little brat. No matter. The doors are locked. There is nowhere for him to go, and he obviously leans towards the 'flight' response rather than the 'fight'.

Good.

**_"Come out, come out, wherever you are!"_** Scarecrow snickers and kicks open a door leading to the security booth. **_"Come out, come out and play!"_**

Unsurprisingly, the boy doesn't answer. He's probably holed up somewhere, crying and hoping this is all a bad dream.

Wait, wait…ah. The bathroom door is swinging _very_ slightly. Bingo.

**_"I wonder where he could be hiding."_** he muses. **_"Where, oh where has my little dog gone?"_**

He readies a new creation-a little gas bomb-and tosses it inside. Once a few minutes have passed, he pushes the door open and strolls in.

The bathroom is filled with ghostly fog-a regular death trap. But there's no sign of that wretched child…oh, yes there is.

There's a pair of sneakers sticking out from under a stall.

**_"Could he be in here, I wonder?"_**

He flings open a few empty doors to ratchet up the tension before gently opening the one with the sneakers.

**_"Oh, THERE you are!"_**

There he is, all right. Slumped over the toilet with his head in the water.

Scarecrow grabs a handful of dripping hair and yanks him up. Dead as a doornail. What a way to go, drowned in a public toilet.

Oh, well.

He lets the head fall back with a soft splash and leaves the bathroom, whistling. He likes this new lair. Hopefully he can stay here for a long time.

THE END


	19. Subject 256

AN: _This was not planned, but it went over so well that I might recreate it for my own amusement. I think I got to him before my toxin could take full effect, which made it that much more fun._

SwordStitcher-**_Yeah, but she'd shriek and act like an idiot. I've seen Harley. I don't want one. _**_Swirly? I'd forgotten that term...god, what a nightmare. You are a walking cliché for lousy adolescence. I know. It's horrible. These anti-bully campaigns should get you on as a scare-'em-straight thing. Not happening._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Perhaps it's just that Arkham has terrible nurses-they always try to rush it-but we've had them bad enough to bruise. Better than the flu, I suppose, but still. I have never had a subject that clever-well, under the influence, anyway. If I ever found one, I'd keep it for a while longer._

* * *

If he ever got out of this, he would never plead insanity again. Ever.

The Joker-of course it was the Joker, what had he been thinking, getting locked up in Arkham?-had broken out, cut the power, and mass panic had ensued. The 'harmless' (in comparison, anyway) inmates had no hope against the lunatics from level four, none at all. Especially now that the ground floor and the morgue were flooded with some kind of hallucinogenic gas.

And wouldn't you know it, he was stuck on the ground floor.

Ryan Holmes was in here for a botched robbery. He'd gotten the insanity plea thanks to Daddy's money, but now it was not at all worth it. Not one bit.

He'd found a corner to hide in, but he'd gotten a lungful of the white gas and now the room was starting to look like something out of _Alice in Wonderland_. It didn't help that he couldn't see very well-everything seemed to be covered in fog.

Wait. Something was moving in there. Maybe it was Jack, his buddy from level two.

No. Not quite. Whoever it was was tall and skinny and-apparently-unaffected by this stuff. What the fuck was that?

There was an outline of a…claw…and he shrank back. This was a monster. It had to be. No human being had a clawed hand!

"Well, well, what have we here?" And they had glowing eyes! Glowing eyes! The old woman he'd killed had come back for him, somehow… "A little guinea pig. What fun."

No! No, she was not going to drag him back with her, wherever she'd come from! It had been an accident!

The clawed hand reached out and dug deep into his neck. NO NO NO NO…

The already-warped room disappeared completely, leaving him and the monster. No. She wouldn't take him back. He'd die first…

One claw tapped his nose and the thing cackled. He struck out and scraped his hand on the claw just as his fingers brushed…burlap?

**_"Oh, a little fighter!"_** It might have been grinning. He couldn't tell. **_"Ding dong bell, pussy's in the well!"_**

What was this? Where was the room? He could feel the floor under his ass, and the wall at his back, but there was nothing else. Nothing but him and the monster.

He had to get out of here. He had to.

He ducked around the monster and fled blindly into the mist. Where had Arkham gone?

**_"Three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run!"_**

Something hit his stomach and he doubled over onto a hard surface. OH GOD OH GOD OH JESUS CHRIST IN HEAVEN…

**_"Hello, little gingerbread man."_** He was shoved over and bent backwards against the hard surface. **_"A little more medicine should do you good."_**

The last thing he ever saw were those unnatural yellow eyes boring into his skull.

THE END


	20. Subject 31

AN: _This happens less often than you'd think. Which is really for the best, because it's a nightmare to clean. Nobody ever wants to pick it up._

SwordStitcher-_I don't think she'll be visiting for a while. No one's ever stupid enough to drop by in October. And Gotham has...special...things. Batman insurance, Supervillain insurance, villain drills in the schools...someone did try a tongue-in-cheek survival guide, but somebody took offense and the writer met with an accident just in time for the six o' clock news._

* * *

All right, he'll admit it. He's only using her because she is uncannily like dear old Granny, right down to being a tad sadistic.

Well, she was sadistic, anyway. That's faded since she's come to Arkham for drowning her grandson in the bath. Something about getting the devil out of him. Now, where has he heard that before…?

No matter. Now she's strapped down in the chair-she tried to bite him when he gagged her-watching him with furious eyes. She really does remind him of Granny.

**_Fine with me! We kill her twice!_**

_We can't kill the inmates._

**_Accidents have happened._**

_This is true. Heart attack, stroke…_

**_You naughty boy._**

He's prepared a new form, meant to be inhaled rather than injected. A little more practical, and he can use it as a personal weapon. He's only been mugged twice, thankfully, but he doesn't want to try for a third time.

He shakes the canister a little, more for effect than anything else, and watches her eyes widen. Good. She knows this won't be fun, then. Well, fun for her. He's always rather enjoyed it.

"Have I ever told you about my dear, departed Granny, Mrs. Kerr?" he asks. "You remind me a great deal of her, only she never attempted outright murder."

She wiggles against the ropes and makes muffled sounds, probably cursing him to Hell. Oh, yes, she is more like Granny than she will ever know.

Which will make this all the more enjoyable.

He removes the gag and she spits at him. She misses-thank God for small favours-and promptly starts shrieking at him, her querulous old voice bringing back memories. He can't say that he's missed this.

He gasses her and watches her cough. This should work faster than the injection, but it may not be as strong.

It _is_ faster-soon enough she starts shrieking at someone named Georgie. The grandson she drowned, if he's not mistaken. He makes himself comfortable with his notebook nearby. She doesn't need his assistance, not like some of the others. She's got plenty of raw material to work with.

**_So pretty._**

_Hm?_

**_The screams. They please me._**

_Yes._

"GEORGIE! GET BACK WHERE YOU BELONG!"

He has the nasty feeling that Georgie is going to take her with him.

"GET BACK!"

She tries to stamp her feet and fails, thanks to the rope. He chuckles and leans over to poke her with his pen. _That_ elicits one final wall-rattling shriek before her jaw snaps shut and there's the nasty _squish_ of teeth chomping tongue.

"Mrs. Kerr?" He prods her again and she slumps forward, her mouth dropping open. A small piece of pink meat falls out with a _slap_.

She's not dead, but she won't be sharing anything. Just the way he likes it.

THE END


	21. Subject 189

AN: _Trypanophobia-the fear of needles-is very common. Some of you may even have it…how unfortunate. For you._

SwordStitcher-_I explained that she'd had a rather violent psychotic episode-carefully blaming the night nurse for not minding her better, of course-and that was the end of the matter. She never did get over her delusions...I treated her myself for another month before she died of a heart attack. Tsk, tsk._

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Oh, she's dead now. A real tragedy, it was...but no matter. Nobody really wants to clean up the tongue-they slip and slide and there's something about another person's saliva that's just so...makes your skin crawl, is what it does. And it really is for the best that you don't suffer from trypanophobia..._

* * *

There was a reason he'd gone to the effort to make that glove. First of all it was a great deterrent to physical attackers-what if they ran into it by mistake? Even the Batman was a little more cautious. Not that it mattered, the big lummox.

The other reason was that trypanophobes were everywhere. He didn't know why-it was just a little prick. If it was done well, they wouldn't even feel it.

He didn't really care if they felt it or not. For most people, the sight of thing was enough to cause an accelerated pulse. Besides, they were all going to die or go insane anyway. A little poke was the least of their worries.

Like this one. He'd taken one look at his masterpiece, clamped his eyes shut, and started muttering, "This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening…"

"Oh, but it is." He tapped the man's nose and relished at the hissing of his breath through his teeth. "It really is. Now, there's no reason to be frightened of needles."

"This isn't real…"

"It's just a little prick." He moved the needle downwards, towards the jugular. "Nothing to worry about."

All right, maybe he _could_ have been a little gentler, but what was the fun in that?

At the jab, his little lab rat gasped and jerked away-snapping off the tip. Fantastic. Just fantastic. All the work he'd put into this…although he did have three other fingers.

Hm.

He moved to the man's other side and slid another needle in. Sure enough, there was a panicked wail and he jerked again.

_Snap!_

Maybe this was why people bought those silly voodoo dolls…

"See? Nothing to be afraid of."

The man began to scream in earnest, rough, strangled shrieks that sounded like they hurt to produce.

Where to put the next one? Oh, how about…how about the left arm? Then he could put the last one in the right arm and everything would be nice and symmetrical.

_Snap!_

_Snap!_

There. Wasn't that just as pretty as a picture? And those screams! He hadn't had someone with that kind of volume in far too long.

Now, did he have any spare needles in his case…?

THE END


	22. Subject 229

AN: _I sorely considered doing this to Jervis, but Edward annoys me just a little bit more. I'll deal with Jervis another time, perhaps. Next time he invades my lair for a cup of tea. That'll teach him to come rushing in, making enough noise to wake the dead…_

* * *

There is a reason that most people don't voluntarily accept ingestibles from Jonathan Crane. It's a suicidal idea. It doesn't matter how long you've known him, how close you think you are…no. You don't. Take. Anything. It's like taking homemade caramel apples at Halloween. It simply isn't done.

Unfortunately, Edward was desperate. He'd been running from the police, the Joker, and the Batman-for the last time, it had been a matter of 'wrong place at the wrong time'!-and had found himself inside the Scarecrow's hidey-hole.

Considering he'd made a fair amount of noise coming in-not on purpose, but still-Jonathan took it…well.

That should have been his first warning sign.

"Take a seat. Have a drink."

"Thanks." Lemonade. Ahh. "Um, Jon…"

The lemonade tasted a little off. Not enough sugar, probably. Typical. Oh, well. It was cold and it was wet.

"What do you want, Edward."

"I need to stay here until tomorrow morning."

"Of course."

He was in a good mood. Things must be going well down in the basement, then.

Sure enough, there was a loud **CRASH** downstairs, followed by a shriek of agony.

"Jonathan! Are you going to take care of this or not?"

"You deal with it! I've got a new one!"

New…one?

Whoa…dizzy.

What exactly was in that lemonade?

"Jon?"

**_"Yes, Eddie?"_** Scarecrow purred.

He finally turned around and Edward saw exactly why he had that ridiculous potato sack on his head.

It was no longer a sack. It was a living face, with bugs and worms and God knew what else crawling in the dark recesses of its mouth.

**_"What's the matter, Eddie? See something that scares you?"_**

Get out, get out…couldn't move.

"You moron."

"J-Jon…"

"Look at you. Still a crybaby."

This wasn't real, this wasn't real, it was just a poison…

**_"Ed-die."_**

But Scarecrow was real.

Horrible, scratchy hands gripped his tie and yanked him forward.

"Idiot. Scared of your own shadow."

**_"What do you see, Eddie, old pal?"_**

"You cheated! You little bastard, you cheated! Admit it!"

"I didn't!"

**_"Didn't what?"_** The hands moved to his neck. **_"Come on, tell me. TELL ME!"_**

No no no no

"Admit it!"

**_"Tell me what you see!"_**

He yanked back and the chair toppled, toppled, fell backwards and his head hit the floor with a nasty **CRACK.**

Then there was nothing.

THE END


	23. Subject 115

AN: _Beware, little children. Inhuman treatment makes human monsters, and we like to __**hide under your bed, watching and waiting for you to go to sleep so that we may take our revenge.**_

SwordStitcher-_'Eddums'? Thank god nobody's given me a nickname like that...Edward has a neon sign that says 'inflict misery here'. He is still victim to kick-a-ginger-day (courtesy of Joker). Unfortunately, he has a big mouth and, shortly after this experiment, Batman showed up at my door looking uncommonly...smug. One day very soon, he'll have to be dealt with. Painfully. And permanently. _

APieceOfThePuzzle-_Oh, I most certainly can. Liquids are easier-and, given my...cooking troubles...easier-to give to unsuspecting victims. It ensures nobody drops in without being invited. Except Batman. You'd think he'd learn, after a while, that kicking down my door will result in some sort of bodily harm, but he continues. You'd think you'd learn, after a while, that trying to cut his head off will result in bodily harm, but you continue. He starts it. You're not going to start that again, are you? It's true._

* * *

"D-Doctor Crane, what are you doing?"

Jonathan Crane's lips quirked in what might have been a smile. His patient, sixteen year-old Adam West, squirmed uncomfortably in his straitjacket.

"Doctor?"

"You're afraid." It wasn't a question. "Why? We've had one-on-one sessions before, Adam."

It wasn't that. It was the straitjacket, the sinister-looking briefcase, the…crazy…light in Crane's eyes.

But there was no way to articulate that.

"There's nothing to be afraid of." His voice was calm, chatty. The same as it always was. But there was something wrong with his eyes. "I'm sorry about the straitjacket, but it's for your own good."

"Huh?"

"The orderlies tell me you've been violent lately. Would you care to tell me why?"

"I haven't."

"So they're lying?" Like they'd never lied before. He hated that phrase. 'So they're lying'. Why did adults always believe someone else? "You can talk to me, Adam. You know that."

What the fuck was up with his eyes?

"Doctor Crane?"

"Yes?"

"What happened to Leslie?" Leslie was a girl about his age. She'd been in for depression. He'd liked her. Well, mostly. Lately she'd been a little weird, mumbling things about a scarecrow.

"Her parents took her home."

"Oh."

Crane opened his case and took out a limp, brown thing.

"We're going to try a new type of therapy today." Crane removed his glasses, folding them and putting them away in the case. He looked a little less creepy without them. Not much, not enough, but a little. "It's still in the experimental stage."

"Um…"

Crane put the brown thing on his head. It was a simple burlap mask, with two holes cut out for eyes and a mouth stitched into a frown. It was a little unnerving, but…

"Doctor Crane?"

"You were a bully at your school, were you not?" His voice was muffled behind the burlap. "I had one of your victims. She attempted suicide. She was ultimately successful, despite my…new treatment." His hand crept towards his case. "Would you like to know what she saw?"

"Um…"

There was the sound of a button being pressed and a thick fog drifted towards him. He coughed and shook his head a few times before looking up.

Doctor Crane was gone. In his place was a monster with a brown head and a stitched mouth. The mouth was grinning at him.

**_"She saw the mouth of Hell, gaping wide open for her." _**The voice was rough and layered. **_"We are Legion."_**

He choked and tried to get away, but the straitjacket held him there. The monster laughed and a pale flipper reached out and patted his cheek.

**_"Would you like to join us, Adam?"_**

"Oh, God…"

**_"There is no God. Only Scarecrow!"_**

NO NO NO SCARECROW NO

He began to scream. Bile bubbled in his stomach and rose up, demanding release. He gagged and thrashed and the chair fell backwards just as he threw up.

COULDN'T BREATHE COULDN'T BREATHE OH GOD

He choked on the sour gunk in his mouth, trying to spit it out. The monster leaned over him, laughing.

It wasn't long before he stopped breathing altogether.

THE END


	24. Subject 264

AN: _I normally avoid the mall at Christmastime, but I couldn't resist paying Santa a little visit. The poor man needed me to fill a prescription for him…by the way, you can bite through your finger. Your brain just won't let you. Fascinating, isn't it?_

SwordStitcher-_Still better than 'Eddums'. Really? I think it's a cute nickname. Don't even think about it. Now, Jonathan, love, would I do that? You might. I would do nothing of the kind. If I wanted to upset you, I'd be a mite more creative than_ that._ Now look what you've done...never mind. His parents, of course, demanded an investigation in the death of their little angel. Funnily enough, they had to check in not long after that._

* * *

Ah, the holiday season. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men.

Sickening.

Naturally, he couldn't let this continue. Not in Gotham. Kitty had jokingly called him the Grinch, but it couldn't be helped. He'd told her so. Her response was to jam a Grinch beanie on his head as a 'disguise'. Bah, humbug.

No matter. They had entered the mall without being recognized. It took them a few minutes to track down the Santa Claus, however. But they found him eventually, surrounded by screaming brats, harried parents, and a handful of obnoxious teenagers.

"Is this really necessary?"

"Yes."

"God, you _are_ the Grinch. Are you sure you're not green and furry when I'm not looking?"

"Yes."

"Whatever, love. You go see Santa, I have to find something for my parents."

Humph. 'Go see Santa', indeed!

He took a deep breath and tried to look normal. His attempt was nearly ruined by Scarecrow.

**_I smell chocolate._**

_Yes. There's a bakery near here._

**_I want chocolate._**

_Not now._

**_FEED ME._**

_Do you want to gas the mall Santa, or do you want chocolate?_

**_Both._**

_Santa first._

**_But you'll give me chocolate afterwards?_**

_Fine, fine._

**_Yay!_**

He shook his head and wondered _why_.

It was easy to duck under the flimsy barricade protecting the back of the Santa from the masses. It was even easier to place a little gas grenade under the gingerbread house.

Five minutes later, Scarecrow was eating his cookie-chocolate with chocolate chips-when the gingerbread house was knocked over and a loud howl echoed through the mall. Not two minutes later, a small stampede of parents rushed the mall Santa, climbing onto him and yanking at everything they could get their hands on.

_Well, well. I wasn't expecting that._

**_What were you expecting?_**

_The usual screaming and crying._

**_I love it when they do that._**

_But this is more interesting._

**_It's funnier._**

Mm. Cookie and screams.

**_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…Jack Frost nipping at your nose…_**

"The Santa got his finger bitten off." Kitty said from behind him. "How did that happen, I wonder?"

"No idea. How'd the shopping go?"

"Fine."

"Get me anything?"

"You'll have to wait and see, won't you?" She reached behind the now-unattended counter and grabbed a star-shaped cookie. "It's only a week away. You can wait that long."

"No I can't."

"Are you two done watching? The police will be here soon."

_I can't see anything else now. Too many people._

**_Yeah. Bitten finger, though…what a story for his grandkids!_**

There was a loud battle cry and he saw one of the giant candy canes rise up. A small spatter of blood appeared on the floor outside of the enclosure a minute later.

**_Or not._**

_Oh, look. Red. Isn't red a Christmas colour?_

He adjusted his hat, took one last look at the screaming throng, and started towards the exit. Happy Christmas, Gotham.

THE END


	25. Subject 215

AN: _I find that a little something extra-my mask, a tarantula-can make the experience so much more…well, more._

SwordStitcher-_He hates it, does he? That's different. Oh, no... What__? And what do you mean, 'Santa for adults'? Wait, no. I don't want to know. Maybe I should get a Santa costume. No. Why not? It'd be fun. They make them. They're kind of short, but... NO. No Santa costumes. You're no fun at all. _

* * *

Mary Watts had been duct-taped to a chair for two days, five hours and thirty-six minutes. A total of three hours had been spent under the influence of some hallucinogen, but she was frightened enough on her own.

Her fellow captive, Steve Gates, had been in another room, apparently being tortured. She didn't know. All she could hear were the screams.

They were going to die.

She'd been offered food and water a few times, but the one time she tried to eat she threw up. The smell still lingered.

She hadn't heard any screams for the past hour. What was going on over there? Why hadn't the monster come, the one with the clawed hand and the yellow eyes?

The door opened and a ray of light illuminated the steep staircase. Then there was the sound of something rolling down, down…and coming to a stop at her feet.

She looked.

There rested Steve's head, mouth frozen in an eternal scream, a ragged rim of flesh where his neck had been attached to his body.

"What do you think?"

IT WAS TOUCHING HER OH GOD

The monster came down the steps and stood in the shadows.

"You look frightened, my dear. Whatever is the matter?"

She was going to be sick. Oh god it was touching her its mouth was on her toe she could feel the teeth…

"Is it the head? I didn't mean to drop it. Blood makes things so _slippery_, you understand…"

He was holding something tall and sharp that…was it dripping?

She tried to move her toe back and only succeeded in toppling the chair over. The monster laughed and stepped into the light a little more.

That was a scythe. It was dripping blood.

_God somebody help me…_

She didn't realise that low whining noise was coming from her until the monster knelt down next to her.

"Shh-shh-shh. You're fine. Everything's going to be fine now. Look! You even have a friend." He picked up the head and set it on her stomach. "You two can have a nice chat."

IT WAS ON HER OH GOD OH GOD IT WAS SITTING ON HER SHE COULD FEEL THE BLOOD SEEPING INTO HER SHIRT JESUS…

She tried to move, to dislodge it somehow, but it just sat there.

She threw up, the vomit joining the blood and water on her stomach. She was choking on the thin, slimy fluid still stuck in her throat and the head just sat there, staring at her.

The monster was laughing. His head was thrown back and he was gripping that bloody scythe, just laughing at her.

She jerked again. This time the head bounced off and rolled off into the corner. The monster stopped laughing and went over to it. Using his scythe as a golf club, he putted the head back in her direction. It came to rest near her neck.

The mouth moved and it sunk its teeth into her neck. She screamed and shook her head frantically, trying to get it off. It hung on.

The monster bent over her.

**_"What is it, child?"_**

The teeth pressed further against her skin, breaking it and continuing to sink lower until they touched.

**_"What is it?"_**

"GET IT OFF OF ME PLEASE!"

**_"Get what off of you?"_**

"GET IT OFF!"

**_"The head?"_** His voice was teasing. **_"Are you afraid of the head?"_**

"YES!"

**_"All you had to do was ask." _**He raised the scythe.

_SLICE!_

THE END


	26. Subject 432

AN: _Poor, foolish child. She was always a nervous little thing. She never did pass my cell if she could help it. Tsk, tsk._

APieceOfThePuzzle-**_I kill everyone. _**_You also get blood all over the floor. **Killings are messy. **Can't you strangle people? **That's no fun. **Haven't you heard of blood-borne illnesses? **That's why we have minions. **Minions. **Uh-huh. **Nobody uses that word. **I DO. **You are insane. **I know you are, but what am I? **Oh, no..._

* * *

Arkham's newest night nurse, Gemma Goode, is a mousy little thing that has no business working here. But the pay is decent and she could start right away, both dreadfully important things.

The hallways are usually dimly lit, if lit at all, and unless a doctor's stayed late-a rarity these days-there are never any lights under the doors.

But there is tonight.

Who stayed late? Doctor Brown is always gone five minutes before six, Doctor Leland left two hours ago, and Doctor Combs called in sick.

She knocks on the door and, when no one answers, opens it. Maybe someone left the light on by mistake. It happens to everyone, now and again.

The light is coming from the desk lamp, and it throws shadows that look like reaching hands on the walls and ceiling.

Sitting in the leather chair behind the desk is not a doctor. It is a thin, long-limbed man dressed in a tattered suit. Rimless glasses perch on his nose and a burlap mask rests in his lap. His spidery hands trace the stitches on the face. Really, the image could be likened to an old lady and her lapdog.

He is not alone. A small woman in a black dress and a long coat fashioned from a straitjacket sits on the arm of the chair, her arms folded across his skinny shoulders and her chin resting on top of his. Both of them look tired.

"Good evening." he says, his voice cold and clipped. "Nurse Goode, isn't it?"

"M-Mr. Crane…"

"Doctor." he corrects. She swallows and forces a nod.

"Doctor, sorry…um…"

"How are you tonight, Gemma-may I call you Gemma?" As if she's foolish enough to tell him no! "You look startled. I suppose they didn't mention the poor security when they hired you?"

She turns and runs. She has to get to the switch, get this place on lockdown…

The hallway is terribly long and growing longer. It's filling with fog, making it impossible to see. Why can't she reach the end?

Glowing yellow dots appear in the fog and something begins to take shape as it moves jerkily towards her. It turns out to be a man, his yellow eyes sunken deep into a burlap face.

**_"Hello, Gems."_**

She swallows her scream and stumbles backwards. He continues towards her, his gait more like a puppet's than a man's.

**_"How are you tonight?"_**

She trips over her feet and falls, the tile hard and unforgiving against her tailbone. The puppet-man stops and looms over her, those yellow eyes burning into her head.

**_"Mannerless brat."_** He reaches down and grips her shirt, pulling her halfway off the tiles. Can't breathe, can't breathe… **_"ANSWER ME!"_**

He shakes her and she chokes, trying to get the courage to push his hands away. She brushes her fingers against his and draws them back with a whimper-they're rough, sharp, like dog's feet.

He lets her fall with a sound of disgust and turns away.

**_"Pleasant dreams, little Gems."_**

And with that, he is swallowed up by the fog as though he was never there at all.

Gemma faints.

* * *

_Beep…beep…beep…_

"…nervous breakdown…hallucinating…should never have hired…"

Scarecrow. The Scarecrow had been out of his cell.

"Scarecrow was out!" She tries to get up and finds herself restrained to a gurney. "He…"

"Jonathan Crane is safely in his cell, and has been all night." a voice soothes. "Just calm down, dear."

"But…"

"That's enough, Gemma." the voice says. "Just lie down and go back to sleep."

That voice…that's not any of the other nurses.

Gemma opens her eyes. Standing over her is a woman in a long coat that's buttoned up to the neck.

The coat is fashioned from a straitjacket.

"Doctor Crane? She's ready for you now."

She begins to scream even before the needle enters her neck.

THE END


	27. Subject 576

AN: _This really was one of my finest performances. Ah, the screams…I could have taken them all on the road as Doctor Crane's Chorus of the Damned._

* * *

Gotham City's beloved opera house is very old. The acoustics are marvelous.

Jonathan Crane wonders if it will shut down after tonight. If it does, he's moving in.

He is ready. The fog machines have been spiked, the doors have been locked, and the telephone lines have been cut. This Halloween is one that they will never forget.

Well, they will. They'll be too busy struggling in a straitjacket to remember. But 'this Halloween is one that they will never forget' has such a nice ring to it.

No matter. It's showtime.

The lights go down and there's an excited murmuring. He rubs his hands together, wondering if they'd still be excited if they knew what was coming.

He steps out on stage just as the spotlight comes up. Perfect.

"Good evening, Gotham." They don't recognize him just yet. How sad. "How are you all tonight? Brave, I see. Brave and foolish."

The murmuring turns worried. That's more like it.

He steps into the spotlight and clasps his hands behind his back. Scarecrow slides into place with a low chuckle. He's always been the more theatrical of the two, really. The fun one.

**_"Don't you know what tonight is?"_** The air grows hazy. Ah, the fog machines are beginning to work. **_"Tonight is the night where ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties come out to play. And aren't you lucky! We've come out to play with you."_**

The people in the front row shrink back in alarm and he climbs off the stage. Time for a little audience participation.

He selects his star performer-a young man trying to hide under the seat-and escorts him onto the stage. They'll do anything he asks right now, in hopes of being spared. Poor, unfortunate souls.

**_In pain! In need!_**

_Seriously?_

**_It was the perfect opening, I'm sorry._**

_Just get on with it._

He ties his new toy to a pole at center stage and the light moves up to rest on them. This one can begin the show, but they'll all join in soon enough.

He'll use the gas this time-it's faster and his time is limited.

The man coughs and slumps forward as far as his restraints will allow. Scarecrow steps out of the light, rubbing his hands together.

Three…two…one…

A wild shriek of agony bursts from the subject's throat, followed by a steady stream of, "GET THEM OFF! THEY'RE ALL OVER ME!"

Entomophobia, then. How very unfortunate. And wouldn't you know it, he's got the perfect accompaniment for his little soloist! A nice, fat cockroach, retrieved from backstage.

He takes it from his pocket, comes up behind the man, and places it ever so gently on his shoulder. The man doesn't notice it at first, but when he does, the screams intensify and he starts to struggle. The roach, startled by the movement, scuttles into his sleeve.

The audience is starting to get into it now-he can hear a few gasps, one or two muffled cries, and finally, one loud wail.

That loud wail triggers the rest.

Scarecrow steps onto the stage, takes a bow, and retreats to the wings to borrow a costume and make his getaway.

THE END


	28. Subject 38

AN: _A word of advice-mug me and I will kill you. Or at the very least take your mind and twist it inside-out. Doesn't that sound fun?_

SwordStitcher-**_HAHA! I knew they liked me more than you, kid! _**_You wouldn't even exist if it weren't for me. **I would so. **You would not. You exist as a coping mechanism that I really don't need anymore. **Just keep telling yourself that. **It's true. Stop being in denial. **I AM NOT IN DENIAL. **Oh, no? **No.** Then you won't mind if I fill a prescription for myself... **DON'T ABANDON MEEEE. **Admit it. **NEVER. **I think I have that bottle around here somewhere... **That's not funny, Jon. **I wasn't joking._

* * *

This guy's an easy target. Skinny, glasses-wearing, looks like he makes some cash…oh, yeah. Quick and easy.

He follows the pigeon into an alley and takes out his switchblade. This shouldn't take more than a few minutes. Obviously the guy's an idiot-dark alleys, at night, in Gotham? Too dumb to live.

He's talking to someone up ahead. The mugger stops and ducks back behind a dumpster.

"I thought you might enjoy a demonstration." The voice is dull. "Understand that this is not what the final product will be like. It's still in its early stages."

"Of course." Where the hell is he from?

"A man followed me into this alley. If you would have your men bring him forward, he will do admirably."

Huh? Do for what? Maybe there's some other guy…HEY! Hey, hey, where the hell did the ninjas come from?

"Perfect. No, no, let him go. I want you to have the best possible idea of the effects."

He is pushed the ground and released. He intends to run, but he hasn't even gotten to his feet with the tall, thin man reaches towards him as if to bless him. There's a mechanical sound and a cloud of white gas flies into his face. It's bitter and thick and it makes his eyes water.

**_"This is faster than the injectable form, but not quite as potent. I hope to change that." _**A slender monster turns towards him and he swallows a scream.

The monster's burlap face is ripped in patches, revealing raw, oozing muscle and glimpses of white bone.

He is looking at a living scarecrow.

He becomes aware that the low drone is coming from his throat and tries to curl into a ball, anything to avoid looking at that god-awful _face_…

**_"Hello."_** it purrs. **_"And how are we tonight? Happy? Healthy?"_**

The drone becomes a high-pitched whine despite his best efforts.

"Is the mask a requirement?"

**_"No. Jonny-boy needed a gas mask and I needed a face."_**

"Good. I'm satisfied, Scarecrow. Doctor. I will contact you again in hopes of further progress."

A harsh cackle reaches his ears and a rough hand grips his chin.

**_"Thanks for being my demonstration, kid. Word of advice-stay out of dark alleys."_**

Something comes down on his head and all goes mercifully black.

THE END


	29. Subject 246

AN: _Alas, poor Professor Pigeon…I almost liked him. Old fool. I would have liked to hear the screams, but alas…I couldn't risk his being heard through the walls._

* * *

It was raining. That was typical, it was always raining here. That was Gotham for you.

Two hours of crouching on a roof with an umbrella had done nothing for his mood. Finally, however, the guest left and Pigeon went into another room for a moment. A moment was all he needed to slip down and onto the window ledge. Kitty had bowed out of this one-too much clambering about in high places, she said. He really did need to cure that particular phobia…

Pigeon came back into the room and settled into his chair, his eyes closed. Lovely. There was a reason he'd waited until nighttime-his old professor had always liked a bit of wine after dinner.

The lights went out. That was not planned, but he would take advantage of it. It was a bit too exposed out here.

"Geeves! Get the lights!"

"Are you afraid of the dark, professor?" He ducked inside and slipped behind a drape, chuckling. "Afraid of the unknown beasties that might lurk just out of sight?"

"Who are you?"

He reached over to shut the window and pull the drapes. There. Safe from prying eyes.

"You don't remember me? That hurts, professor, it really does."

Pigeon stood up and moved towards the fireplace. That wouldn't do. Pokers hurt and he was already nursing a set of bruises.

He gassed the man before he got five steps in and dragged his limp body back to the sofa. This wasn't his toxin-rather, a muscle relaxant. Very helpful in picking subjects off the street. It would wear off in a few minutes.

"Sorry about that, professor, but I'd rather you not inflict further injuries to my person. Kitty made me promise to come back in one piece." He patted Pigeon on the head and lit a candle. He'd always liked candles. They added just the right touch sometimes. "Better?"

"Mm…"

"Ah-ah! Don't waste your energy. It will wear off, you have my word." He pulled his mask off and set it on the table. This really was a cozy little room. He'd have liked it if it weren't for the bird décor. "You've done well for yourself since we met last. Never married, though…ever the perpetual bachelor."

He crossed the room, riffled through the little bar, and came up with nothing but a bottle of cheap wine. No, thank you.

He forced a smile and went to seat himself in front of Pigeon. "Do you have a name for the face yet? No? How do people survive, I ask you…it's Jonathan, professor. Jonathan Crane."

There was a flicker of recognition. Good. He would have been sad indeed if he'd been forgotten, especially after being the first person to get an 'A' in Pigeon's class.

"How have you been?" He rummaged through his bag and came up with a roll of duct tape. Perfect. "I've been busy, as you know. My research takes up most of my time…still, it's always nice to see an old _friend_."

Pigeon twitched. Ah, it was wearing off. Better get to work, then.

He stuck the end against the couch and started pulling. Good, strong, duct tape. One could never go wrong with a roll or two of that. It was the supervillain's best friend.

Heh. That could be a slogan.

"Wh-ay."

"What was that? Why?" There was a little nod. "Oh, don't tell me you've forgotten. You very nearly cost me my job a few years ago. It was only through dumb luck that I kept it."

He yanked the tape across Pigeon's chest. Imbecile…he'd come too close to finding out about The Work. It was his own fault, really-he'd accidentally used Pigeon's cousin as a subject. The man had died-complications, always a risk-and Pigeon had been curious. Ohh, it had been close, too close, and it was all thanks to this **_idiot_**…no matter. He had him now, snugly taped to his own sofa.

"How are we? Comfy? Cozy? **_Scared?_**"

Pigeon whimpered and Jonathan pulled the tape across his mouth. And _that_ was the end of the roll. The sight was rather comical. Kitty always said he used too much…but it couldn't be helped. It was far too much fun to play with.

"You asked me, then, what I was working on." He pulled out a syringe and vial. "You're about to find out." Now, what had been in that file…? "Your father committed suicide, I believe. Church scandal…never cared for organized religion, myself. Too many crazies." He chuckled and began to fill the syringe. "You were in therapy for over a year…did it work?"

There. All ready. Now, to find a vein that wasn't covered by shiny silver…ah. The neck. His personal favourite place, really-people never liked sharp objects near their neck.

"Let's find out, shall we?"

He removed the syringe from Pigeon's neck and sat down to wait.

It took ten minutes for Pigeon to stop twitching and making muffled screams. It took fifteen minutes for him to stop breathing. Jonathan checked for a pulse, waited another minute to be sure, and slipped out the way he had come. It was time to go home to a nice cup of tea.

THE END


	30. Subject 580

AN: _Had I not been so rudely interrupted, I might have done more. Ah, well. The Batman has always been a far more interesting subject._

SwordStitcher-_I kill anyone who annoys me. Young, old, middle...I would have killed Pigeon long ago, but at the time it would have drawn too much attention-I wasn't well-acquainted with Gotham's rooftops at the time. Somebody would have noticed me. I wish you weren't so well-acquainted with them now. If you hadn't locked me out one night... I was sick! It's not my fault you forgot your keys. Cell phone. I was sick and drugged. Good point._

* * *

The Blackgate prisoners are dull. They're only away for being the hired help. Some of them aren't even associated with the Arkham lot at all-they're in for muggings gone wrong, or rape. One was in for dog fighting, but Harley and Kitty had found him within half an hour and made him regret it far more than a prison sentence would have done. The last he'd seen of him, the man had had a spork lodged in his eyeball and was missing a few teeth. And they hadn't been done.

No matter. He has a nice, new subject to play with. He isn't Batman, but Batman's busy on the other side of the asylum right now. He has maybe…forty minutes…before the next stage of the plan begins.

This one was in for mugging gone wrong. Nothing to warrant such horrors as a spork to the eyeball. Scarecrow really couldn't care less what the man's done. All he cares about is what makes him scream.

He shoves him into the observation room, locks the door, and drops a gas grenade on the floor.

"Doctor Crane, please…"

He grins and cocks his head to the side. The prisoner is starting to itch and squirm. Jonathan suggests entomophobia.

"There is no Crane…"

"They're all over me!"

**_"Only Scarecrow!"_**

His victim smacks into the reinforced glass and he catches sight of a familiar black shadow. Batman's early, too early. He'll have to get rid of him. Shame he has to leave his toy, but the man's already dropped to the floor, twitching like a dying roach.

THE END


	31. Current Subject

AN: _Maybe this will teach you to fuss over me and treat me like a helpless child. Those days are long gone, as you are about to find out. Now stop struggling, get in that chair, and shut up. Happy Halloween, little lab rat._

* * *

Shh, shh. There's no reason to scream. You're perfectly unharmed at the moment. Save your energy for later.

This? Oh, nothing serious. A creation of my own. It will induce nightmarish hallucinations, tailored to your own personal phobias. I study fear, you know. Of course you know, you're about to be my own little lab rat.

Oh, do stop thrashing, you'll only topple the chair…see? Now look what you've done. You've fallen over and hit your head. No matter, that will be the least of your worries soon enough.

What was that? Your head hurts? What do you expect me to do about it, bandage it with vinegar and brown paper? Don't be ridiculous, I couldn't care less if you'd stabbed on eye out on one of my scalpels.

Oh, very well. I'll set you upright again. But don't squirm so much and that won't happen to you.

_There_ we go, back to normal. Is the room spinning? I need to know these things, so that I can account for them later. No? You're sure? You wouldn't be lying, would you…no, I suppose you wouldn't. Very good.

Now, my unfortunate little friend, I need you to answer a few health questions. Do you have a history of cancer or heart trouble? Are you on any medications? Do you…oh, stop crying, I haven't even touched you.

All right, all right. Head to the side, please…try to relax, it makes it easier…there. Deep breaths, now. Wouldn't want you having a panic attack before the show begins.

Ah, yes, I can it's starting. The pupils always dilate, and the breathing…what's that? Yes. Tell me what you see. Then you may start to scream.

THE END


End file.
